Céad Míle Fáilte ~ A Hundred Thousand Welcomes!

Here we seek a rest in the shade, some cool water and a little kindness. This blog is dedicated to peace, truth, justice and a post- industrial, post-petroleum illumined world in spite of all odds against it. I very much like the line about the ancient knight (see poem below) "His helmet now shall make a hive for bees" It is reminiscent of "beating swords into ploughshares" a sentiment I heartily approve of. Thank you for visiting ~ I hope you return!

Thursday, December 31, 2009

Here's to the year with all its sorrows, joys and triumphs tooHere's to the new one that closely follows, captured fires anewWe'll drink and toast to one another, we'll sit aside for a whileWe'll laugh within each other's arms and give a sweet soul-smile~ DJY 12/31/2009

Friday, December 11, 2009

Because of these dissolute times in the land of the free, home of the brave, it is quite difficult to find a sensible and unbought social commentator. Not impossible, though. Mr. Joe Bageant has my vote as the last, best hope for awakening the sleepy American hobbits from their TV - induced stupor and rousing them to save themselves (and others) at the very last possible second. Go Joe! Click on over and be sure and read it all. The Devil and Mr. Obama

Oh, and, kill your TV, folks...It isn't entertainment, it's mind entrainment. To the benefit of the money monkey mafia, and no one else. Certainly not to our benefit.

Tuesday, December 8, 2009

Today the weather here is rather serious, it demands our full attention. The temperature is hovering around 17 degrees Fahrenheit, we have 6+ inches of new snow on the ground and it is falling fast. It looks like a Dr. Pepper snow shovelin' - "shovel at 10, 2 and 4" kind of day. The excited young weatherman on the TV says temps will keep going down and wind speed and snow totals will keep going up over the coming couple of days. No school and no unnecessary driving propels us deep within, our homes if not our souls.

I spent some quality time this morning next to our Christmas tree, a fresh-smelling, "you-cut" cedar-ey thing (can't remember the exact kind) decked within an inch of toppling over with many-colored lights and sparkly glass globes. It sits in the corner of our living room like a martyred saint, like a young-tree Bodhisattva of peace, kindness, forgiveness, goodwill to all mankind and deep illuminations. It is a symbol of the Tree of Life, redeemed and reclaimed by The Numinous, with it's fruits no longer forbidden, Christ's life having healed the rift.

One of my all time favorite books (which I haven''t read in 20 years - memo to self, re-read it!) is Annie Dillard's Pilgrim At Tinker Creek. If you've never read it, get yourself a copy on the double. It is a wise and wonderful set of musings on nature, God and the examined life. She describes her experience of a tree with lights:

When the doctor took her bandages off and led her into the garden, the girl who was no longer blind saw "the tree with the lights in it." It was for this tree I searched through the peach orchards of summer, in the forests of fall and down winter and spring for years. Then one day I was walking along Tinker Creek thinking of nothing at all and I saw the tree with the lights in it. I saw the backyard cedar where the mourning doves roost charged and transfigured, each cell buzzing with flame. I stood on the grass with the lights in it, grass that was wholly fire, utterly focused and utterly dreamed. It was less like seeing than like being for the first time seen, knocked breathless by a powerful glance. The lights of the fire abated, but I'm still spending the power. Gradually the lights went out in the cedar, the colors died, the cells unflamed and disappeared. I was still ringing. I had my whole life been a bell, and never knew it until at that moment I was lifted and struck. I have since only rarely seen the tree with the lights in it. The vision comes and goes, mostly goes, but I live for it, for the moment when the mountains open and a new light roars in spate through the crack, and the mountains slam.--Annie Dillard, Pilgrim at Tinker Creek (1974).

About Me, and About The Herb of Grace

I am a 57-year old wife, mother and grandmother who currently works as a beadworker, web mistress for my husband's jewelry store/art gallery and CASA volunteer. In my life I have been a seminarian, Protestant minister, professional cook, payroll clerk, hospital orderly, columnist, cook/gardener for a commune in San Francisco in the 1970's and 80's, opthalmalogy paraprofesional, financial advisor (now retired. I held Series 6, 63 and 65 securities licenses, and insurance lines of life, annuities and variable contacts)and was a small business owner from 2003 to 2008 (Calm Eagle Family Financials LLC). Eastern Orthodox Christianity, Eastern Rite and Traditional (Latin Rite)Catholicism, ancient Irish, Buddhist and Native American spiritualities all inform my worldview and spirituality. You will find a kindred spirit here if you value the wisdom of the Holy Spirit and of Mother Earth in equal measure, for they are each other's right and left hands.

~~~Namaste, and peace be with you.

Also known as the herb of grace, and rue, rosemary has deep associations with penance, resurrection, nativity and joy. This blog is dedicated to the spirit of peace, joy and life triumphant. Legend has it that during the flight to Egypt,the Virgin Mary draped her blue cloak over a white flowering rosemary bush to dry. The blooms have been blue ever since to represent Mary’s blue cloak.

Rosemary is known as the "herb of remembrance." It is said that rosemary will grow particularly well in gardens tended by strong-willed women.

The Old Knight

His golden locks time to silver turned;O time too swift,O swiftness never ceasing;His youth 'gainst time and age hath ever spurned,But spurned in vain; youth waneth by increasing;Beauty, strength, youth, are flowers but fading seen;Duty, faith, love are roots, and ever green.His helmet now shall make a hive for bees;And, lovers' sonnets turned to holy psalms,A man-at-arms must now serve on his knees,And feed on prayers, which are age's alms;But though from court to cottage he depart,His saint is sure of his unspotted heart.And when he saddest sits in homely cell,He'll teach his swains this carol for a song;"Blest be the hearts that wish my sovereign well,Curst be the souls that think her any wrong."Goddess, allow this aged man his right,To be your beadsman now, that was your knight. ~ by George Peele